The Making of John Watson
by 321girl
Summary: At the pool, when Sherlock realizes that John was Moriarty the entire time, his world falls apart. But when he and Moriarty fall off the roof of St. Barts together, leading to Moriarty losing all his memories, Sherlock attempts the impossible, and tries to make John Watson a reality. But can someone that good ever exist? COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, plot etc.

Spoilers for every episode.

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Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat. "John"

John Watson looked gleefully at him. "Well, this is a turn, isn't it?" He stood there, completely at ease, as Sherlock's world shuddered and cracked. Sherlock waited for the catch. For the real Moriarty to come forward, but John just stood there.

"What the fuck is this?" Sherlock managed to get out. John raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

"You don't know? The great Sherlock Holmes, confounded by little John Watson?" John laughed coldly, cruelly. His eyes narrowed and his voice filled with a fiery hate. "It was so easy to putter around, fawning at you with adoration and praise. Acting stupid. God, you never thought twice about John Watson. You thought you were so amazing, that I was just your little pet, making tea for you, trailing after you. When all this time, I was the brilliant one. The one smarter than you."

John's hatred speared through Sherlock. How could he have missed this? It was so simple. John, the ex-army doctor, was good at killing. He liked the adrenaline rush, liked seeing the blood and death. "Who are you?" Sherlock croaked.

John threw back his head and laughed, it looked so odd, seeing the maniacal gleam in his eyes where there had previously only been warmth and exasperated affection. "Sherlock, reduced to asking questions?" John chuckled. "Can't you deduce that I'm Jim Moriarty? The evidence is right here." He spread his arms.

Sherlock shook his head in part denial. John strode closer to him. "Oh I see. You liked John Watson, liked the fact that someone could put up with. Oh, poor thing. You let John Watson worm his way into your heart, you let him turn the machine into a man." He stared at Sherlock, navy eyes intent on ripping him apart. "The first clue should have been that John Watson put up with you. Like anyone ever could."

Every word, every gesture that wasn't John's tore through him. John (or Jim?) continued, "You needed a John Watson though, someone who cared, who made you feel like you were worth something. That you were someone. But the truth is," John shook his head slowly, almost mournfully. "John Watsons don't exist Sherlock, and even if they did, they wouldn't stay with an ungrateful brat that tries so hard to be someone. Even though he's a nothing."

With that, Sherlock's carefully constructed world came crashing down around him. There was a dull ache in his throat and a burning, a terrible burning in his heart.

John smiled and nodded. "I see you have a gun. But you won't shoot me Sherlock." He tilted his head in that way that John used to, and Sherlock hated how he felt John slipping away with every minute. "Anything to say Sherlock?" When Sherlock remained impassive, John, no Jim now, shrugged and said conversationally, "I expect we'll see more of each other soon. No, don't bother returning my things, I have other accommodations. God, did I ever tell you how much I hate jumpers?" and with that, Jim spun on his heel and walked away.

Sherlock stood there for hours more, staring vacantly at the pool. He was so far away, seeing John giggling with him at the crime scene, reliving that awe he first felt when he realized John killed for him, all while tearing apart the John room in his mind palace.

When Mycroft found him, Sherlock realized that tears were still trickling down his cheeks.

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Please review :)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, plot etc.

Spoilers for every episode.

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John's room is gone. But there is a black void where it used to be. It sucks the colour from the rest of the palace, and everything is grey, grey, grey. And every time Sherlock tries to venture near it, it pulls him in, sucking viciously at him, tearing his mind apart. So he leaves it be. But everything is grey.

They're on the roof of St. Barts. Jim is rubbing his hands together gleefully, and Sherlock registers that he's wearing a jumper, a cruel reminder of what once was. "Funny how it ends where it begins," Jim laughs. Sherlock is rendered mute. It was so easy to convince himself that he could face John, no Jim, again. Yet, standing here, all Sherlock aches for are a warm smile, an eyeroll and a cup of tea with the sound of rubbish tellie in the background. All he wants to do is get down on his knees and beg John to come back to him, to take the grey months away and fill them with colour again. But he knows that isn't possible.

"Now we finish the game? One final act? Glad you chose this nice tall building, ah full of shattered memories – nice way to do it."

"Do it? Do – do what," Sherlock blinks and then realizes. "Yes, of course my suicide." He is revolted with himself that he is almost willing to do it. To escape from the nightmare that his life has become after knowing John had betrayed him. Then Jim lays out the ultimatum, three gunmen, three bullets, three victims. Ms. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly. Sherlock asks for some time, he sees the disappointment in Jim's face, but then it becomes clear. He laughs for the first time since the pool incident.

Jim looks solemnly at Sherlock after the revelation. "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends, you've got a way out." He sighs, and like a roaring train, Sherlock knows what he's going to do.

He tells himself that it's to save his friends, Molly, Lestrade, Ms. Hudson, but in that moment, all he can think is "Not John."

So when Jim pulls the gun from his waistband and brings it towards his mouth, Sherlock is already twisting it away from him. The grapple for a moment, but John is strong, and skilled, and it is only by shear luck that Sherlock knocks the gun away from him. They're standing there, heavily breathing, and Sherlock can feel his eye blackening.

Jim judges the distance to his gun and begins to clap slowly. "Well done, I didn't expect that from you." Sherlock doesn't even have time to compose himself before Jim is racing to the edge of the building. Again, there isn't any thought except for, "John" and Sherlock is lunging at Jim and they are balanced precariously for a second on the edge of the roof.

All Sherlock can see are Jim's eyes and they look so blue, so genuinely surprised and mildly impressed that for a moment, it's him and John again. Then, they're tumbling off the roof of St. Barts.

Sherlock barely feels the pain as his body hits the cement, and the last thing he sees before darkness is John.

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The more reviews, the faster I write, so please let me know if you'd like me to continue! :)


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, plot etc.

Spoilers for every episode. Hope you enjoy!

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The hospital is too bright. Sherlock's brain is blurred and he hates the feeling. God, is that what normal people felt like everyday?

"Sherlock"

He turns his head, and even that takes monumental effort, and sees Mycroft standing at his side. "Glad to see you're finally awake, brother." And that tone, it's all wrong on Mycroft. It's relief.

Sherlock groans, "How long was I out?"

He can guess the answer, but it still comes out as a shock when Mycroft replies, "A month and three days." Sherlock sighs and looks back at the too white ceiling. "And 5 hours and 16 minutes." Sherlock feels Mycroft brush his hand lightly. "You had me so worried."

Unexpected warmth rushes into Sherlock's chest. He smirks slightly, "So it takes a month long coma for you to admit you care for me"

Mycroft laughs, "I knew you wouldn't die." He says, taking a seat and leaning his umbrella against the chair. "You're much too thick-headed for that."

Sherlock snorts, enjoying his brother's company for the first time in fifteen years. Then suddenly, last month's events come rushing back at him.

"John?"

He can feel the sudden tension. Even though he isn't looking at his brother, he knows Mycroft is stiffening in his seat.

"You mean Jim"

"What happened to him?"

Mycroft sighs, resigned. "Sherlock, your obsession with Jim is frightening. Please, you know that John Watson never existed. It was all a trick."

"What happened?" It isn't a question now, it's a demand.

Mycroft toys with the idea of lying to his brother. He knows Sherlock will figure out though. "Jim Moriarty, suffered severe injuries like yourself and has been in a coma. He woke up three days ago and has since been in and out of consciousness. His mental faculties seem to be in order."

"But…"

Leave it to Sherlock to be able to gather information even after waking up from a coma.

"But, he seems to be suffering from complete amnesia. He has no idea who he is right now."

Mycroft can see the hope flare in Sherlock's eyes before his brother slips on an indifferent mask. "I see. Well, it's no wonder you weren't too worried, I mean if John, er Jim, woke up, it could be inferred that I would follow shortly."

"Sherlock," Mycroft says gently, "Leave it. Leave Moriarty alone, I'm going to send him to a nice mental hospital out of the country and you'll be safe from him."

Sherlock barely hears Mycroft as a thousand possibilities run through his mind. Then he stiffens. "I don't need protecting," he growls. "And I won't leave him."

Mycroft throws his hands up in frustration. "Sherlock, he's evil and insane, what the hell do you think you can do? Trick him into believing he's John Watson? It's more likely to backfire and leave you even more broken!"

A suffocating silence falls between them. The words, always hovering under the surface for the last few months, have finally been said. Because it's true isn't it? When John Watson walked out of Sherlock's life, he left a broken, broken man behind. He built Sherlock's heart painstakingly with bravery and loyalty, jumpers and tea, companionship and thrill, and then doused it with gasoline and lit the match.

"Please Mycroft."

Mycroft is hating Jim Moriarty and hopes the man burns in the darkest hell, but he cannot refuse the one thing Sherlock has ever asked of him.

"Rest up. You can see him tomorrow morning."

Sherlock sits by John's bed, heart thudding. What happens if he remembers? For a brief moment, Sherlock acknowledges that if it's Jim Moriarty who opens his eyes, Sherlock will die. Maybe not immediately, but within the next few months. He'll slowly fade away, because he's so lost without his blogger.

The change in the machinery indicates the man is waking up. His deep sapphire eyes open and Sherlock's breath stops.

"Hello, who are you?"

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Yay! Sherlock has a chance :) As I always say, please review!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, plot etc.

Spoilers for every episode. Short chapter :)

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The innocence. The simple curiosity with which the sandy haired man asks this, almost reduces Sherlock to tears. He has a chance.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, your flatmate."

The man nods. "Ah, finally. Someone who will give answers," he smiles. "This is rather embarrassing, but I can't seem to remember…anything." Suddenly his brow furrows, and Sherlock braces himself for the condescending loathing. But instead all that's said is "You're hurt. What happened to us?"

It shouldn't make Sherlock so happy when he hears him say "us," with such concern. As if he cares about Sherlock. He clears his throat awkwardly and prepares the little speech that he ran through his head countless times last night. "You're John Watson, ex-army doctor, and my…friend." He hurries forward, "I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world, in fact, made the job up myself. You help me on cases. We were chasing a killer through London and he ran up to the roof of a building. We followed and tried to subdue him, but he pushed you off the edge of the building. I tried to grab you and well…" Sherlock trails off, cursing himself for babbling.

The man just stares at him with infinite patience, but somewhat lost. And that look is just so John, that Sherlock wants to weep and hold him in his arms and never ever let him leave. "John Watson," he smiles, "That sounds…right. But I think you're lying about something."

Sherlock fakes confusion, even though fear is clawing up his throat. "About what?"

John smiles tiredly, "You fell off a building for me, I think that makes us best friends."

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D'awwww :)


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, plot etc.

Spoilers for every episode.

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Over the next few days, Sherlock tells John everything about John Watson. His loyalty, how he puts up with Sherlock (although Sherlock downplays how truly difficult he can be sometimes), and his strong sense of morals. John nods along and absorbs the information with some incredulity, "I shot a murderer dead the first day I met you?"

"Yes, you're a crack shot with nerves of steel."

"I was completely fine with the rotting head in the fridge?"

"Well, not completely fine, but you're used to it."

"You scared away my date?!"

"Calm down, she wouldn't have had sex with you anyways."

Piecing together John Watson is slow and painstaking. John is so bland without his memories, but little by little John returns to Sherlock. There are times when Sherlock is ready to quit out of sheer frustration, but never does he leave. Mycroft watches his brother from a distance and shakes his head in quiet wonder at how John manages to always bring and best and worst out of Sherlock.

It's been two months, and John is sitting in his chair again, sipping tea and studying Sherlock. "Everything you told me sounds about right, but…"

"But what?" Sherlock snaps, not looking up from his microscope. There is a sharp anxiety twisting in his stomach, but he's used to it. Ever since he and John were released from the hospital, Sherlock has been living with the fear that one day, John will remember who he really was. But he'll live with this apprehension, god, he'll even welcome it, because John is back and this unease lurking in every part of his mind is so much better than the emptiness of before.

John huffs in annoyance. "I can't remember! You could be lying to me and I wouldn't know a damn thing."

Sherlock hums absent mindedly as he switches the slides, "John, if I told you were a prostitute, would you believe me?"

John scowls and goes to the kitchen, picking up Sherlock's empty mug. "Not the point!" He shouts over the running water. Sherlock smiles, the fear abating somewhat.

When John returns, Sherlock is lying on the couch, head turned to watch him as he settles into his chair. "You trust me, right John?" Sherlock asks hesitantly. John sighs and gives him a crooked smile.

"With my life."

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Please review :D


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters

Such a long chapter :O

If you haven't read Agatha Christie's The Crooked House, there are spoilers in this chapter! (Sorry, I'm not very good at making up my own murder mysteries)

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The first time John has a relapse is at a crime scene.

It had been going so well. John was, well, being John. He vehemently denied he was gay when Angelo brought them a rose and candle, bought the milk and fought with the pin and chip machine. He would kiss Ms. Hudson on the cheek whenever she brought them baked goods, started working at the clinic, flirted with every pretty girl he met. Sherlock's heart warmed when he caught John blogging again.

"We haven't had a case yet. What is there to write about?" Sherlock asked, leaning over John's shoulder. John laughed, "Plenty, when I have a deranged flatmate who is up at 3am in the morning conducting experiments involving burning wigs that he stole from our neighbors."

Sherlock remembered when John first used his blog to try to regain his memories. "A Study in Pink? The ABC Murders? The Adventure of the Speckled Band?" John chuckled, "My, I really was good at coming up with titles."

"I dearly hope that is sarcasm, meaning that the blow to your head finally made you come to terms with the fact that you romanticize our adventures with copious amounts of irrelevant details."

The Union Jack pillow flew through the air and hit Sherlock squarely in the face.

The story Sherlock told John about the missing blog entries after the pool incident was that John had went on a medical exchange in America for three months, the lie he had told everyone else after realizing John was Jim Morairty.

"A three month exchange in America? Doesn't seem like I'd be comfortable leaving you alone for that much time."

"It was important for your medical ambitions, and besides, we video chatted almost every evening, there were plenty of nice murders in America for me to solve."

"Hmm."

They are standing in a grand house just outside greater London. The entire family of Lenard Haywood is gathered around the dinner table, and Sherlock is nearly dancing with glee. "Evidently the Yard was incompetent enough to arrest the wrong people and the murderer still sits amongst us." John rolls his eyes at Sherlock's theatrics. In his low baritone, Sherlock says "If you would all stay here while Lestrade does his little question and answer thing, I'll be searching for real clues and will be back shortly with the name of the murder." He winks cheekily at Lestrade and sweeps dramatically out of the room. John follows him in exasperation.

He finds Sherlock in the nanny's bedroom. Sherlock's brain is whirring as he sorts through all the details of the murder. He sorts through motives, alibis, access to murder weapons, while John ruminates to himself in the corner.

"First the grandfather dies, everyone is set to gain something from his death, Charles most of all. And now the nanny dies from drinking a poison meant for the little girl, Josephine. But why won't Josephine tell us who the murderer is? Evidently the murderer is scared of the girl, hence the reason that he or she is trying to kill her. Is the girl just bluffing or does she actually know something?"

Sherlock snorts, "Obviously she doesn't know a thing which is why she won't tell you her hypothesis. Wants to be in the center of attention but is only attracting the murderer, better to be safe and kill her as well."

John stares as Sherlock drips some chemical onto the nanny's bed. Suddenly it hits him, "Oh God Sherlock, the little girl did it."

Sherlock glances up and sees the horror on John's face. As John utters the words, Sherlock can see the murder play out clearly in his head. How simple, he thinks, and all the clues fall into place. Josephine killed her grandfather, and then faked her own assault to draw away the suspicion. When Brenda and Laurence were arrested, she was no longer in the limelight, so she killed her nanny. The trace of dirt on the stool from a child having to get up high enough to balance the marble block on the door, the dents in the floor from repeated attempts. Everything was there.

Sherlock and John barrel out of the room. Lestrade is talking to Charles, when Sherlock's finger finds Josephine and he declares "The murderer."

Everyone stares at him in horror. The girl puts on an innocent face and begins to cry. Lestrade gasps, "Sherlock, she's just a little girl." Before Sherlock can rattle off his string of deductions, John starts speaking, eyes fixated on Josephine.

"What did your grandfather do to you that could have made you want to kill him?" He says in a comforting, sympathizing tone. His doctor voice. "Was he cruel to you?" Josephine stops her sniveling and watches him warily. "In a way, yes, he was. Maybe he didn't buy you that pretty dress you wanted, maybe he told you that you couldn't have a puppy."

"He wouldn't let me take ballet lessons."

John nods in understanding. "Of course. So you had to kill him, there just wasn't anything else that could be done." He pauses, "And then your nanny, what terrible thing did she do to you?"

"She thought I was a stupid little girl and was trying to convince mummy to send me away."

Josephine's mother clasps her hands to her mouth in horror.

John smiles as he walks closer to the girl. But this isn't a John smile, it's predatory and cold and, Sherlock's chest constricts, it's Morairty's smile.

"But you're not a stupid little girl. You fooled everyone here, the police, your entire family, and Sherlock. It was a brilliant murder." His voice is so alluring and Sherlock realizes how Morairty has such a large network of criminals. The girl is looking at John with adoration now. He kneels in front of her, and Sherlock doesn't know if only he can see the insanity raging in John's eyes. Then John sighs, "Pity, that your motives were so childish and self-centered." He sneers, "And that you just admitted it to the murders in front of the Yard."

He stands abruptly and turns to the Yard, "Well, arresting her might be a good idea now."

Sherlock barely notices the chaos that ensues after this declaration: the screaming child, sobbing mother and horrified relatives. His thoughts funnel towards John. Is this it? Would Moriarty finally make his reappearance? Then a look of sadness passes over John's face and he moves to Sherlock's side. "It's terrible how evil can be found in the most innocent of vessels." Sherlock looks at John in his oatmeal jumper and worn jeans.

"Yes, it is terrible."

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Hope you enjoyed! Please review :)


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, plot etc.

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There are other incidents like this, but they are few and far between. Times when John manages to deduce who committed the crime before Sherlock, when John gets angry and Sherlock can feel a dark loathing simmering beneath the surface. And then there is the time when John tells Sherlock he is bored.

"Sherlock, I'm bored."

Sherlock looks up sharply from a petri dish of rare bacteria. "What?"

John is standing by the window, staring out at a sleepy London. "We need a good murder."

Sherlock snorts, although he can feel his heart thudding painfully in his chest. "You're the one who's supposed to be berating me when I say that."

John continues as if he doesn't even hear Sherlock. "Wouldn't it be funny if I went and committed a murder, then you could solve it. You and I, playing cat and mouse across London."

This is sounding too familiar to the Great Game and Sherlock is so terrified that John is going to finally realize who he is. The past five months have been complete heaven in comparison to what was before the fall and Sherlock knows he can't, won't, go back to that.

John clenches his hands. "The world is too mundane. People are too stupid. I only feel alive when I'm on a case with you, and even then," he hesitates. "Even then, the murderers are too predictable. You need a real opponent, someone really exciting to stimulate that massive intellect of yours."

It says a lot about Sherlock control when he keeps voice level despite the turmoil raging inside of him, and the fear clawing through each of his veins, throbbing with the beat of his heart. "But people would die."

"That's what people do," Jim Moriarty laughs in his head.

But John just grins at him and winks, "I knew you weren't a sociopath." He turns on the telly and sprawls out on the couch. Sherlock lets his heart slow down and comes and sits on the couch next to John, their shoulders touching. John laughs as Sherlock deduces through reality TV shows, crime shows, and movies. And soon they're leaning into each other, John nodding off sleepily against Sherlock. Sherlock carefully takes a mental picture of this moment and frames it in his mind palace.

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Okay it gets really exciting in the nest chapter I promise :) Please review!


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters

John's POV Finally!

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John is taking the tube home from the clinic when a well-dressed businessman bumps into him, spilling cold coffee onto his jumper. The other man gets off at the station without a second glance. John feels a murderous rage stirring inside of him. He can imagine exactly how to go about killing this man, every detail etched out clearly in his mind. Obviously the man is having an affair, it would be so easy to follow that man home, and kill him and the mistress he would be meeting in an hour, and frame the wife.

Then a cry jolts him out of his reverie. A little girl has just taken a tumble down the stairs running for the tube. John quickly steps off, even though this isn't his station and jogs over to her. She's about 8 years old and sniffling, but trying to hide it.

"Hello, did you scrape your knee?"

The girl jerks backward and shies away from him. John smiles encouragingly. "Don't be scared, I'm a doctor."

The girl looks at him warily and clutches a Paddington bear toy closer to her chest. "My mum said not to talk to strangers."

John laughs lightly. "Good of your mum. Why don't you point out where she is and I'll talk to her and she can tell you I'm not a stranger."

She screws up her face and whimpers, "I don't know where she is. She was buying our tickets and I saw man selling balloons, so I went to look and when I went back she was gone."

John sighs, lost child. "Ah, well why don't I put a bandage on your knee and so we can go find her, alright?"

The girls nods, and John pulls out a small first aid kit from his coat pocket (living with Sherlock had made him realize the benefits of carrying around one 24/7) and as he wipes away the dirt and blood, he asks her a few questions. "Why were you trying to catch the tube then instead of looking for your mum?"

"Because my mum might have already gone home."

John whistled, "Smart girl, do you know how to get home?"

She smiled, missing front tooth giving her a beautiful lopsided expression. "Yeah, me and mum take it home everyday."

John stands her up and starts scanning the crowd. "Now, why don't you describe your mum and…"he doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence.

"Janine! Oh my goodness! I was worried sick," a frazzled young woman pushes through the crowd and sweeps the girl into a tight embrace. John steps back as the mother wipes her eyes angrily and chastises Janine. She suddenly turns to John, still clutching her daughter tightly. "Thank you so much for watching her. I was so afraid she'd get kidnapped or worse."

John smiles amiably, "Not a problem, she seems quite capable actually."

Janine nods, "He was looking for you in the crowd, that's how I knew he was the good guy." John glances at her in surprise. "And he had a first aid kit and cleaned my knee before he put the bandage on it, so that means he's an actual doctor." Janine's mother shakes her head, but she's beaming from ear to ear.

"Well, thank you again doctor, I don't know what I would have done without you."

John nods as the mother leads Janine away; the little girl waving and blowing kisses to him. He feels warm inside. However, the fuzzy feeling is quickly dampened by his realization of the hatred he felt for the businessman just a few moments prior.

He decides to take a short walk to a nearby park. There, he sits and stares at the people hurrying home. He hasn't told Sherlock, but he thinks he might have been a psychopath. His dreams are disturbing. In them, he is a puppet master, watching his marionettes dance across a stage slaughtering thousands of innocents. And the worst is, when he wakes up, he is happy.

John rubs his face wearily. He half-wants to investigate his history more thoroughly beyond the documents Mycroft had given him, but he's scared. He likes listening to Sherlock's deductions, likes the thrill of the chase when they race around London trying to catch a serial killer, and he's terrified that a resurfacing of his dark past will put an end to that.

He's not far from a bus station that will take him to Baker Street, so he ambles down London's streets, past a shady bar, when a tall man in a hooded sweatshirt bumps into him.

John's apology dies on his lips when the man's mouth drops open in shock. "Jim Moriarty! I thought you were dead!"

John is completely bewildered, but six months with Sherlock has taught him to think quickly on his feet. "Obviously not," John replies, brain racing. Who the hell was Jim Moriarty and why would this man think he was him?

"What have you been doing all this time! Your network has been falling apart."

John narrows his eyes, trying to figure out what to say without tipping the man off that he has no idea what he's talking about. The man takes a step back, fear recoiling off of him. "Sorry, didn't mean to be impertinent. It's just, damn, everything has been a mess since you fell off that building."

John thinks Sherlock would have been proud about how quick his deductions have become. Jim Moriarty, obviously a leader of some shady business – organized crime perhaps – well known and well feared amongst his subordinates and fell off a building like John did? John gives his best impression of Mycroft's icy glare and gives the man a sinister smile. "Look, I have everything under control. Don't question my methods."

The man nods quickly, and John lowers his voice to a soft purr "And this little encounter stays between the two of us, if you value your sanity." John thinks the last bit is a bit overly dramatic, but it works nonetheless. The man's pupils dilate in terror and he is quick to duck back into the bar.

John continues walking down the street, his thoughts whirling. Did this have to do with his dreams and his odd bursts of anger that didn't quite fit in with Sherlock's claim of John's innate goodness?

He passes by an outdoor pool and suddenly, everything comes crashing back to him. The force of his memories causes him to reel back against a telephone booth, startling the young man inside.

Reading The Science of Deduction for the first time.

Handing Hope an envelope of money as the next victim gets into the cab.

Planning the Great Game.

Setting off the bomb when the blind woman begins to describe his voice.

Watching Sherlock burn at the pool

Falling off the room of St. Barts

Waking up

John gasps and blinks three times. Then, a slow smile crawls across his face. Jim Moriarty is back in action.

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Suspense music. Please review :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Don't own the characters!**

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/ followed/favorited this story :)**

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Where are you –SH

Calm down, jumped off a few stations early to deal with a lost child –JW

We're out of milk –SH

And nicotine patches –SH

Sherlock hears John thumping up the stairs exactly twenty-five minutes later. He rises from the couch to help John with the groceries. Before the pool, Sherlock would never have even considered helping anyone with something as mundane as food, but he's putting in some effort to keep John happy. And John is certainly happy today.

"You're more chipper than usual." Sherlock comments, picking at John's attempt at lasagna.

John gives a light laugh, "The lost girl I found today was adorable; I can see her as a future detective."

"Children are boring," Sherlock snorts.

John rolls his eyes and yawns, "Well I'm off to bed, feel free to drag me out if any interesting murders come up. Oh wait, I don't even need to give you permission."

Sherlock shares a laugh with John before his flatmate trundles upstairs, whistling a show tune.

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One month later...

John comes downstairs yawning. Sherlock scowls, "I don't know how you manage to be tired all the time; I've only dragged you out at 2am twice in the last month." John shrugs as he prepares the kettle for tea.

Sherlock is interrupted by an incoming text.

Come to the Yard immediately –GL

Sherlock grins. "I think we have an interesting murder to look forward to, John!" He sweeps from the room, tying his trademark scarf around his neck as he leaves.

He doesn't notice John smirking as he turns off the kettle and races after Sherlock.

* * *

"Abusive husband, consistently raped his own wife and son," Sherlock deduces as he circles the body. "Tortured before he was killed." Lestrade presses his lips together thoughtfully.

"Revenge from the wife?" he suggests.

Sherlock snorts, "Highly unlikely. She's been putting up with his abuse for over eight years. No, the person who killed Davidson would have been a stranger to him, obviously a man. This murder is no accident though, it's been carefully planned out and executed. The murderer knew Davidson's habits well."

Sherlock kneels down to inspect the bloodied body, turning the head slightly to get a better look at the packed dirt in the man's nostrils, and with a flourish, pries open the jaws of the dead man. "The murderer has an odd sense of justice, he lopped off Davidson's genitals while the man was still alive and suffocated him with them."

Lestrade gags, "Oh my god. That's disgusting."

Sherlock smiles brightly, "On the contrary! This is delightfully clever. I have no inkling of who the murderer might be yet. I'll need to talk to the wife."

Lestrade sighs, "She and her son are in protective custody right now. But, to be honest, I don't think there will be much of an uproar if this case remains cold. Seems like the world is a better place without Davidson."

John looks on in bemusement as Sherlock argues heatedly with Lestrade about letting him talk to the wife.

* * *

The abandoned warehouse contains the body of a woman roped to pillar. Her charred remains are contorted in agony. "The murderer chose a good spot, Sherlock muttered, "He could enjoy her screams without worrying about being discovered, and he certainly did enjoy them."

John tilts his head. "What makes you think he stayed around to watch her die?"

Sherlock puffs up, "That crate has been moved," he points at a small wooden crate slightly to the side of the murder scene. The dust has been wiped off the top indicating that someone sat on the crate. And if he wasn't enjoying the murder, he would have simply stood and watched her die instead of getting comfortable."

"Brilliant," John breathes.

"And the burning," Sherlock continues, "She killed her own twin daughters by leaving them inside a car during the last heat wave we had."

Lestrade nods thoughtfully, "I remember that case. She got a minor charge for neglect."

Sherlock snorted, "She should have gotten a lot worse. The woman was an adulterer, didn't care about her children at all. My guess was that she purposely killed them."

Lestrade rolls his eyes, "I'm starting to wonder whether we're trying to catch a good guy or bad guy here."

* * *

A week later, Lestrade screams. He actually screams when Sherlock slices open the man's stomach and hundreds of tiny spiders crawl out. John just leaps back in alarm as the little critters scatter across the bedroom floor.

"Amazing," Sherlock breathes, "Greed. The victim was in the profitable, but immoral business of trafficking exotic animals and women." He leans closer to the body. "The stitching here is perfect, textbook worthy. Obviously we're looking for someone with a medical background."

Lestrade wrinkles his nose, "A serial killer doctor who only kills bad guys? Sounds like something out of a twisted fairytale."

"Sounds like someone like me." John murmurs. Sherlock and Lestrade look sharply at him. John raises his hands in defense. "Oh c'mon. I didn't mean I've been committing the murders, but Sherlock, didn't you say that I killed a murderous cabbie the first day I met you?"

Sherlock visibly relaxes while Lestrade makes a choked sound. "YOU KILLED THE CABBIE?!"

John glares at a smirking Sherlock, "I guess I forgot to tell you that Lestrade didn't know…"

* * *

**Please Please Please Review! Criticisms, ideas...anything is welcome :) **


	10. Chapter 10

**I don't own the characters**

**Special shoutouts to CC, ramen-luver101, Lexisfightingrobots, random flyer, RosemaryJohnSherlock, and monik for their reviews and to everyone who favorited/followed the story! Glad to know you're enjoying it!**

**Sorry for the slow updates :/ I'll put out two chapters today :D**

* * *

John watches from the shadow of the street lamp as the man hobbles down the street. He had seen the old man leave the hospital twenty minutes ago. Slipping his hand into his jacket pocket, John fingers the small blade. It had been risky to leave the flat in the dead of night, but John knew Sherlock's body was catching up with four days of no sleep trying to figure out who the murderer was.

John had decided it was time to show everyone that the murderer was, in fact, a villain. He stares at the old man.

Unconsciously has a ramrod straight posture. Favours his left leg. War veteran who was shot in the right shin. John narrows his eyes in delight, he would carve crosses into the still living man until he died from blood loss.

Dark circles permanently etched under his eyes. Heavy PTSD and possible insomniac. John licks his lips in anticipation. A mosaic of war scenes on the forehead as well.

Walks hesitantly. Body always angled towards the hospital. Someone close to him close to dying. Most likely his wife. His wife, whom even now, he is still smitten with.

Sits heavily on the park bench in darkness. Pulls out a photo. Wipes eyes angrily. Guilt. His wife could survive with better treatment, better medication that he cannot afford on an army and old age pension.

John tries to cease the information flowing from the man, but like a car skidding a wet embankment he cannot stop deducing.

The man will be alone in the world without her. She was a piano teacher but they never had children. He stayed active in the community, organized charity runs for invalid soldiers. Owes his wife everything for helping him through all the sleepless nights and nightmares. Recently sold all his belongings to pay for her treatment, everything except her piano.

The deductions crescendo until they become one loud thrumming in John's head.

Doesn't deserve to die. Doesn't deserve to die.

John slips into an alleyway and shoves his fist into his mouth to stifle a scream. He inhales sharply and shakes his head. He is Moriarty dammit, a cold blooded killer, a consulting criminal. The morals of John Watson are just some pathetic attempt on Sherlock's part to conjure an impossible human into existence. John Watsons don't exist. People that GOOD don't exist. John steels himself and strolls out of the alleyway, slipping on his "I'm just a harmless bloke" look he had used to get close to the other victims.

* * *

John manages to get Sherlock to eat while on the case. They are sitting in Angelo's, Sherlock picking halfheartedly at his pasta, while John shovels down his with gusto.

"I don't understand it, John" Sherlock ruminates. "The murderer kills during the day which is extremely risky. Likely has a spouse who is unaware of his pastime. But this last kill occurred at night. So was the spouse away that evening?"

John sighs, "Eat Sherlock. It's been over a month since the first murder. If you continue with your whole 'Don't eat, don't sleep during a case,' you'll be dead before we can catch the murderer."

Scowling, Sherlock takes a deliberate bite into his food and continues, "Kills every week on a Wednesday, what is so special about a Wednesday. John, you're a doctor, is there something special about Wednesdays?"

John rolls his eyes, and is just about to answer when he catches sight of Angelo walking towards them. "I swear, if those roses are for us, I'm going to…"

But Angelo walks past them with a wink and gives it to a little old lady entering the restaurant. She's attached to an oxygen tank and leaning heavily on her husband, but her eyes are bright and perceptive.

A nurse trails behind them and helps settle the old woman into a booth before walking over to the bar. Angelo smiles at the couple and exclaims in his boisterous tone, "Food is on the house for this lovely pair!" The man smiles gratefully at Angelo before turning his adoring gaze onto his wife.

Sherlock presses his lips together. "Would you like to hear their story, John?" Sherlock is not normally the sentimental type, but happiness this pure is rare and even he can appreciate it. John nods absently.

"He used to be in the military, fought in the Korean War. After getting shot in the right shin, he was sent home and then married his wife. She was recently very ill. Still is, but some miracle has allowed her to continue on this earth for a while longer. Not new medication, but they've gotten money from some unknown benefactor to pay for her treatment. I reckon they've got another three years together now."

John looks mildly ill as he stares out the window. Sherlock wrinkles his brow in confusion, then his gut clenches. Of course, it's the Moriarty in John repelling all that is good in the world.

They sit in silence for the rest of the meal.

* * *

******John having morality conflicts? Good job Sherlock :)** Please Review! 


	11. Chapter 11

**I don't own the characters**

**Just a short chapter, but y'all get to see John in action :D**

* * *

Wednesday. Paperwork day. John sighs and leans back in his chair stretching. He checks his watch. "Right! Sarah, I'm off for a break!" He calls as he shrugs on his coat. Sarah makes a sound of consent as she walks her next patient into the examination room.

John slips out and hurries towards the London eye. There. The man is on his break now. John smirks, people are just too predictable. How very boring. The man walks into the small sandwich shop, John slipping in after him. It's slightly crowded. Even more of a challenge.

John nods almost imperceptibly to the woman manning the counter as he takes a seat by the window, looking to all the world as if he is meeting someone. Five minutes later she is apologizing profusely to the man whom she just spilt a bottle of salad dressing on.

"Go back to your country, useless whore," he snaps, storming over to tiny bathroom in the corner. The unsettled crowd glares at him in disapproval. _That's not even the worst of it,_ John thinks as he strides outside and goes to the alleyway behind the shop. _Gregory Caddey, racist police officer._ He picks the lock on the back door and stands in the dim delivery space, sliding on a pair of nylon gloves. _Responsible for the false imprisonment sixteen immigrants unable to afford a good lawyer._

Gregory doesn't even have time to widen his eyes in surprise as John flies in the bathroom through an emergency exit, winds the man and gags and binds him. John presses the tip of his shoe at Gregory's throat and reaches under the sink for a large container of cleaner. John smiles amiable down at him as he pours the contents over Gregory's body.

"The funny thing," John says conversationally, as the man writhes in pain silently at his feet. "Is that once you burn everything away, all our skin" he tips some more acid over the man's face, "We're all the same under it. Bones. Muscles. Organs." As the man's flesh melts away exposing the bone, his back arches up once more and he jerks to a standstill, acid fizzling on his remains.

John glances at his watch. "And you've given me some time to eat today as well! Fantastic show, thank you very much!" He slips off the latex gloves and tosses them onto the ground, letting the acid eat away at them as well. Pulling on a pair of leather gloves, John saunters from the bathroom. He gives a cheeky wink to the CCTV that he knows Mycroft will never see and heads to the deli across the street. There, he pulls out his second phone and pulls up Moriarty's bank account.

After depositing 4000 euros into the bank account of Mr. Harris, he shoots the man an anonymous email.

_Saw you and your wife yesterday. She looked beautiful. She should be well enough by your anniversary for a small vacation to Marseille. I've already made reservations at the same hotel where you had your honeymoon. _

John chuckles a bit hysterically and puts his phone away. _Who are you_?_ John Watson or Jim Moriarty? _He closes his eyes, thinking. Time to orchestrate a grand finale for Sherlock. Burn his heart out once and for all and leave London to rebuild his criminal network in peace.

But John isn't as eager to do this, as he would like to believe.

* * *

**Please review :D The story is heading towards an exciting ending!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Don't own the characters **

* * *

The murders take another playful and deadly turn.

A priest who molested children is burned alive. The next day, his church is burned to the ground.

A homophobic banker is beaten to death. The next day, a truck smashes through the bank and every dollar is stolen. The truck is found, but the money never recovered.

An abusive prison guard is drowned in the Thames. The next day, the prison is flooded, killing everyone in it.

Sherlock has almost been driven mad with trying to figure out who the murderer is, when he receives a text from Mycroft.

Moriarty's network is being reestablished. –MH

What are you implying –SH

Don't act daft –MH

John isn't the cause of all this –SH

The style is exactly like Moriarty's. Don't lie to yourself. –MH

Have you seen anything on your cameras –SH

Not yet, but where there is smoke there is usually fire –MH

Piss off and talk to me when you actually have something useful to say –SH

Sherlock steeples his fingers together, trying to ignore the doubt gnawing at him. John hasn't been showing more indications of realizing his true identity than usual recently, but he has to admit only Moriarty could be so clever to hide his tracks for nine murders. He swallows and thinks of how Moriarty tricked him the first time. But if anything, John has been even more…John…the second time. He's patient and puts up with Sherlock's rudeness, but he's quicker to anger. He forgives Sherlock when Sherlock is a complete arse, but he'll make his disapproval evident. He reflects Sherlock's genius and is still annoyingly humble about his own cleverness, but takes pride – almost to the point of arrogance – about his medical abilities. He's more real.

The sound of a door opening startles Sherlock from his reverie. John sighs as he flops into this chair. "Difficult day at work, I presume?" Sherlock queries. John rolls his eyes.

"You don't presume anything"

Sherlock smiles, "True, but if you'd like, you can tell me all about your day rather than listen to me deduce it."

John snorts and lets his gaze wander into the distance. "No, I'd like to hear you deduce it." Sherlock effortlessly recreates John's day and John smiles thoughtfully, "Brilliant as usual." His voice holds a tinge of sadness, which Sherlock cannot understand, but he decides against pressing the matter. Sherlock's phone vibrates and he whips it out.

COME TO THE YARD NOW –GL

He leaps to his feet and throws on his coat.

"Case?"

"It's Wednesday." Sherlock's voice softens, "You don't have to come."

"Of course I do. You'll do something stupid otherwise."

* * *

John's eyes are wild. "We have to warn them!"

Sherlock hesitates. "I can't be certain."

"Be certain," John growls. "You were being an arrogant prick a moment ago, dramatically declaring that a corrupt local politician was blown up and that obviously, city hall is due to be bombed tomorrow. God, Sherlock! People's lives are at stake here."

It pains Sherlock that the reason he's uncertain is that John seems so adamant that Sherlock must be right, and if John were behind the murders, wouldn't he want to lead Sherlock astray? _Damn Mycroft for planting these doubts in my head,_ Sherlock curses.

But regardless, it would be better to play it safe. The next day John and Sherlock stand amongst the Yarders as they patrol city hall. "No suspicious activity last night," Lestrade informs them.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, "Comb through the building again, the murderer is anything but conspicuous."

John offers to go with the officers on their next round and Sherlock, suspicion still heavy in his heart, decides to come along as well. They enter the basement and the two officers instantly gasp. The basement is packed with explosives, the lights blinking menacingly. John grabs Sherlock and yanks him up the stairs. Sherlock resists for a moment, but then John screams, "It's about to go off!" Sherlock complies and just as they leave the basement, the first bomb goes off.

* * *

"Evacuate the building," John orders a stunned group of Yarders, military breeding evident in his calm gaze despite the panic building in city hall.

There is another blast down the hallway. Lestrade chokes. "The archives!" John scowls and punches Lestrade sharply in the jaw.

"What the hell!"

"People are more important. GET THEM OUT!"

Thanks to Sherlock's warning, people are systematically and orderly herded out of city hall, while bomb after bomb goes off. While Sherlock is arguing with a group of Yarders outside about their incompetence in detecting the bombs, he notices John slip back into the building.

Sherlock, mind full of dread, hurries after him.

* * *

People are streaming outside, some injured and all fearful, but at the rate the bombs are going off, everyone should make it outside the building in time if they drop everything.

Sherlock can feel the building giving away, _10 minutes until it completely collapses_ he thinks absently as his sharp grey eyes dart around, searching for John. He just catches the stairway door swinging shut and sprints over, pushing past the wave of people.

"John!" He shouts, but John doesn't reply as he dashes up the stairs. Sherlock follows until John pushes open the door to the 10th floor. Sherlock hesitates. He knows in his heart that past this door is Jim Moriarty, not John Watson, but he can't help but do exactly what John (or Jim?) wants him to.

He slowly opens the door and steps into the hallway. A single door remains open and taking a deep breath, Sherlock walks into the room.

The man in the oatmeal jumper turns away from the window, and it's all ice and triumph in his face.

"Hello, Sherlock." Jim Moriarty says.

* * *

**Almost at the end! How will Moriarty burn out Sherlock's heart once and for all? Does he even want to? **

**Please Please Please review! (If you want an ending mwhahaha :D)**


	13. Chapter 13

**Second last chapter :) Enjoy my dears!**

**As usual, I don't own the characters. **

* * *

Sherlock is hit with the sense of déjà vu. Not again, please, not again.

John laughs and rubs his hands together, "Never thought you were such a masochist Sherlock. Did you honestly let John Watson into your heart again? My, my, you've gotten stupid."

"How long," croaks Sherlock. _Oh god, if he says that he never lost his memory…_

John smiles mockingly, "How long have the murders been happening?"

Three months. He had been deceived for three months.

John shakes his head almost mournfully, "You've really lost your touch, haven't you, Sherlock?" He says sympathetically. "Falling for the same mistake twice? How pathetic."

"You're not the villain anymore," Sherlock manages. The self-satisfaction dies a little in John's face. Sherlock continues, even as his heart is breaking, "You've only killed people who escaped the justice system. Even for your grand finale, you've made the effort to avoid the death of innocents."

Sherlock swallows and attempts to sound condescending, "You've lost **your** touch. I knew you were Moriarty," no need to mention that he only found out after the death of the politician, "And as we speak, the Mycroft's people are intercepting your escape route."

John has the nerve to laugh in delight. "Oh dear, relying on Mycroft's help. Things must be dire." His voice drops an octave lower. "I will escape Sherlock, don't delude yourself. Maybe not today, but one day I will. Jail cannot hold me.

"And even if **you** walk free, you'll never escape this room, Sherlock," John taunts, "You'll always be stuck in this moment. In your lethargic waking moments, in your nightmares, you'll always come back here. To the moment you lost John Watson forever."

Tears are streaming unbidden down Sherlock's face as he snarls and lunges at John, slamming him against the window. "You can't lose what you never had," Sherlock growls bitterly, anguished grey eyes meeting triumphant blue ones.

Suddenly there is a sharp, and painful kick to the back of Sherlock's knee. He twists around, loosening his hold on John for a moment to stare at the little eight year old girl, clutching a Paddington bear, staring fearfully, but defiantly at him.

"Let the doctor go!" She cries.

John twists out of Sherlock's grip and kneels in front of Janine. "Bloody hell, Janine. What are you still doing here? Where's your mother?"

Janine stares suspiciously at a shocked Sherlock before answering John in a tremulous voice. "I was gonna surprise her for her birthday. So I asked my nanny to bring me to her work. I got lost on my way to her office though."

John's eyes are frantic, "We have to get you out of here." Janine nods and dashes towards the door, just as another bomb goes off.

The ceiling crumples to the ground, sending plumes of white dust into the air.

A low moaning sound, as the building stretches to its limit.

A steel support beam falls from the ceiling.

The sickening crack as it lands on Janine.

* * *

_"I don't mean to sound insolent, but..."_

_"Spit it out, Duncan," John sneers, eyes fixated on his phone. "I have a criminal empire to rebuild." _

_"That's just the thing. You seem to be killing...criminals."_

_John's piercing gaze flickers up, meeting the assassin's eyes. Duncan shifts uncomfortably. "I kill those who are in my way. Who threaten my system. Kind-hearted idiots pose no threat to me. I kill those..." __John smiles eerily, "Who question my authority." _

_Duncan nods frantically and stands up. "The politician will be dead by tomorrow morning." John laughs as if the man had said something hilarious and slaps him on the shoulder as they exit the noisy bar. After they part ways, John beings his stroll home. _

_Home. _

_When did he start thinking of Baker Street as home? John pulls his jacket closer into him as if to ward off the strange thoughts. Was it when he ran into Ms. Hudson after that particularly gruelling day at the clinic and she dragged him into her kitchen and practically force-fed him her new batch of muffins? Or was it when he and Sherlock stumbled into the flat laughing after solving the triple homicide that had left Lestrade flopping about in a dirty fountain. _

_Sherlock. _

_Why did John like it so much when Sherlock thought the murderer was exceedingly clever? Why did he enjoy it when Sherlock spewed out his deductions and got each and every one right (except for figuring out he was the murderer)? _

_He tries to deny that the reason he doesn't kill innocents is because Sherlock would be disappointed. John is supposed to be the good one. The one with the pure heart. The one whose purpose in life is to help people, to save people. The loyal friend who has an addiction to danger, is humble and self-sacrificing. The man who is worth so much. John doesn't want to be the messed up psychopath. _

_But he's not John. __He is Jim Moriarty._

_Jim Moriarty, the brilliant, insane criminal mastermind. Arrogant and ruthless, who enjoys killing for the sake of fun and to avoid boredom. The very definition of evil, the darkest villain. Who cares about no one. _

_Because no one cares about him._

_He doesn't need friends._

_I don't have friends. I just have one._

_John or Jim. John or Jim._

_And when he opens the door to Sherlock's violin, and he is playing John's favorite song, John still does not know the answer._

* * *

John howls with grief as he rushes towards Janine's still body. He tries to ease her out from under the steel bar, which is crushing her lower body, but the bar is to heavy. Suddenly Sherlock is beside him, lifting the bar so John can pull Janine to safety. John immediately pulls off his jumper to stem the blood flowing from Janine's thigh. He's laughing hysterically, even as his hands steadily check her vitals. He looks up at Sherlock, whose hands are bloody and torn from elevating the steel bar.

_You couldn't have saved Janine without him. _

_He cares about you. Even after everything you've done to him._

_She still might die. They both might, because of what you've done._

_You'll hate yourself if you succeed. _

_You'll hate yourself if you fail._

_You hate yourself._

John explodes.

"You selfish bastard! You should have just killed me. Don't you understand how difficult this is?" John screams. "God, I have no idea who the hell I am, a criminal or a doctor or a soldier or a madman." He starts laughing again. "I guess this is your revenge, isn't it Sherlock, I burned out your heart, so you destroyed my mind."

Sherlock just stands there, eyes fixated on John, as John tries desperately to stem the blood flowing from the gaping hole in Janine's thigh. John huffs in relief as his jumper stops getting redder and tenderly checks Janine's pulse. Glass is still raining down around them and Sherlock can feel the building surrendering to the damage. John carefully picks up Janine's listless body and races to the next room, ducking around twisted metal. The acrid smell of burning metal makes Sherlock cough as he follows John. They stagger as the last bomb goes off in the basement of city hall. Glass pierces Sherlock's arms as another window gives way and the building heaves its final breath. John stops in front of the window and thrusts Janine at Sherlock.

There is so much hatred in John's eyes when he looks at Sherlock and Sherlock wonders how many times a heart can break in one day. But there is something else behind the insanity, something else behind the darkness and loathing.

With inhuman strength, John shoves Sherlock out the window and he's falling, clutching the little girl to his chest as the building wails once more and collapses in on itself. Smoke and fire flares magnificently into the night sky as Sherlock tumbles onto a giant stunt mattress. His vaguely acknowledges Lestrade's team looking at him in shock while they handcuff Morairty's minions. A tall thug yells, "Where's Moriarty? He was supposed to escape!"

Sherlock slowly drifts out of consciousness as he thinks, "John saved me."

* * *

**One more chapter left! Review Review Review :D**


	14. Chapter 14

**I don't own the characters :P**

**Last chapter :) Thanks to everyone who read & favorited & followed & reviewed the story! I really appreciate it (this being my first fanfic and all) **

**It's short & sweet! I hope y'all enjoy! **

* * *

_Two months._

_He doesn't know how he manages to survive._

_Everything is still the same. _

_The skull on the mantle._

_Ms. Hudson's cooking. _

_Taking cases._

_Solving cases. _

_And yet everything is different._

_John's chair stays empty._

_Ms. Hudson just can't get the tea right._

_The pitying looks at the Yard._

_The lonely cab rides home. _

_Everything is fading to grey. Sherlock tries to hold on, for the sake of Mycroft, Molly, Ms. Hudson, Lestrade, but he's teetering on the edge of depression. He takes the cases__, even the simple ones,_ to try to stay occupied, but he misses his conductor of light. 

_He misses John. _

* * *

It's raining. Sherlock doesn't know what possessed him walk home from the Yard today instead of taking a cab.

As he hurries home, he stops at the sight of a little girl with a cane, carefully jumping in puddles. The man holding an umbrella above her is wearing a black jacket with a checkered collar peaking over the top.

Sherlock's vision tunnels towards this domestic scene. The girl obviously cares for this man. He's not a family member and has been absent for a while, most likely about two months, she's not entirely comfortable around him, but she trusts him. He is weary, just came into town, she was the first person he sought out. She is comfort and consistency to him.

"Janine." Sherlock croaks out. They both turn around and Sherlock's heart stops. No, that's wrong, Sherlock's heart starts beating again; it's been so dead, so quiet for the last two months. After the destruction of city hall, Mycroft had told him that Jim Moriarty's body had never been found. Sherlock remembers nodding absently. Hope was such a cruel thing, a million times harsher than despair. He would know. John Watson was gone and he wouldn't hold on to him this time.

But yet, Sherlock realizes he _has_ been harboring hope all this time. It hurts when he looks at him. Those navy eyes, the stubborn set to his chin, the way he holds himself as if he's been in the military. Sherlock wants to shut this man out. Doesn't want him working his way back into his heart. But Sherlock knows he never left.

The man gazes back at him, and steps forward, taking care to ensure Janine still stays dry under the umbrella. He extends his hand.

"I'm John. John Watson."

* * *

**Again, let me know what you think! I really like the open-ended conclusion, but if I get enough reviews/comments, I'll post a bonus chapter that outlines why John decided to be John Watson instead of Jim Moriarty, go into more depth about the Sherlock's two months without John and what it looks like 1 year from now!**

**Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers & everyone who read the story! I hope you enjoyed it! **

**Over & out! **


	15. Bonus Chapter

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed, asking for a Bonus Chapter :) Your wish has been granted!**

**Here it is! I swear each section is like a new fanfic all on it's own (I actually think this chapter is the length of the story, hence why it took me so long to write this)…but I hope you enjoy! My personal favourite is the "One Year Later" so make sure you read to the end :)****  
**

**Personally I still liked the old ending, but I hope this gives some more closure :)**

**As usual, I don't own the characters.**

* * *

**Part I: Sherlock**

Sherlock opens his eyes. There is a dull incessant beeping to his left, and the acrid smell of antiseptic burns his nose. _These run-ins with Moriarty are really not beneficial to my health_ he thinks, and almost laughs at the irony of it, because if he had John, he wouldn't need a hospital, he'd have his own personal doctor. Then his chest tightens. "John" he croaks.

"If you mean Moriarty, then I'm sorry to say he's likely dead."

Sherlock turns his head sharply, instantly regretting the fact when pain flares up in his head. Mycroft is sitting in the chair beside his bed, umbrella in hand. Sherlock's elder brother sighs and shakes his head. "Why do you insist on this, Sherlock? How many times has Moriarty tricked you, and betrayed you? And yet you cling onto him like a child to his blanket."

The words are harsh and Sherlock flinches at the truth of it. Mycroft's face shows no pity, but inside he is hurting from seeing his brother so tired, and so broken. Mycroft's men were combing the wreckage and he hoped that they would find the body of Jim Moriarty there, but if they didn't, he wanted to make sure Sherlock would not fall into the same trap again.

"John saved me." Sherlock whispers. Mycroft looks incredulously at his little brother. "He pushed me out of city hall with that little girl. He could have saved himself, but he didn't." His eyes slide closed.

Mycroft clenches his teeth, "Sherlock, it's been 3 hours since the collapse and _Moriarty's_ body has not been found. If anything, he never planned to use that exit anyways."

Sherlock's eyes flicker up again, "He's alive?"

Slamming his umbrella against the floor in frustration, Mycroft towers over his brother. "Sherlock! Listen to me. Jim Moriarty is evil, he's insane and…" Mycroft hesitates, grabbing onto Sherlock's hand, "I can't watch him hurt you anymore." In that tight grip, Mycroft's fierce protectiveness and Sherlock's gratitude are expressed in all the words they could never say.

* * *

It's hard going back to work at the Yard. Everyone is curious about the whereabouts of John, and Sherlock realizes Mycroft has said nothing yet. Mycroft is leaving it up to Sherlock to decide whether he wants to spin an elaborate tale or admit the truth.

The next day the headlines read "Well-loved Doctor dies in terrorist attack, saving a friend and a child."

Only Lestrade and Mycroft know the truth.

When Sherlock tells Lestrade the entire story, he's furious. How dare Moriarty play with someone like Sherlock? It's the first time Lestrade has thought of Sherlock as being vulnerable, but with a jolt, he realizes how fragile Sherlock's emotions really are. How untrusting and distant he can be, and he wonders sadly if Sherlock will ever let anyone close to him again.

It is difficult to stay occupied. Even in sleep, Sherlock replays the moment when John pushes him out the window of the building, and he wakes up to the feeling of falling.

Falling into a depression

Falling into the arms of his drugs

Falling off a bridge.

Each time he wrenches away, trying to stay alive. He knows Ms. Hudson won't be able to handle losing both her boys in such a short time frame, but he already feels dead inside.

* * *

"Sherlock, a word." It's been almost a month after John's "death" (and in any case, that was true. John Watson was dead to him) and Sherlock is just about to leave the Yard. Lestrade is hurrying after him.

"What?" Sherlock snaps. Before, he would have followed it up with a colourful insult, but now, even to his own ears, the words sound tired.

Lestrade motions him over to a private corner. Sherlock stands at a distance, hands shoved into his coat's pockets. The wind whips up Sherlock's hair and it scrambles in all directions. Lestrade can feel the chill set into his bones and as he speaks, ghostly tendrils form in the icy air. "I don't know if this will make things better or worse," he begins, and he and Sherlock both know that there is hardly any way that it could be worse, but Sherlock lets Lestrade continue. "I think John did care for you," Lestrade says, watching Sherlock carefully. "He cared for you deeply."

Sherlock flinches slightly, but doesn't make any other comment. Lestrade sighs, letting his gaze wander to the heavens. The sun has set and tonight is clearer than most, tiny stars are visible, pinpricked against the indigo sky. "There was something about the way that he watched you when you were deducing his murders. It was almost like pride, like he was cheering you on whenever you got it right. And that time you were almost thrown into the Thames by George; I don't think I've ever seen the man more afraid."

"He was a good actor," Sherlock whispers.

Lestrade shakes his head, "In hindsight, it's clearer. He only murdered those who escaped the justice system, those who were criminals of the darkest kind. I…I think he did that because of you. He was a psychopath, yes, but he tried to change his nature to fit your moral standards."

Sherlock's gaze wanders, "When I first met John, I just saw an interesting man, who could be a good sidekick. I never thought that he would come to mean so much to me." Sherlock's eyes meet Lestrade, "I changed my morals to try to attain the impossibly high ones of John Watson."

"You both saved each other."

Walking away, Sherlock clenches his fists, "Or we may have both destroyed each other."

* * *

_"John! Help!" Sherlock pleads, clutching at the edge of the cliff, fingers slipping in the rain. John stumbles over to Sherlock and grabs his hand. Sherlock huffs in relief as John begins to pull him up, and then suddenly, John coughs and blood bubbles to his lips. "John!" Sherlock screams as the light winks out of John's eyes and he tumbles forward, blood pouring from a hole that ripped through his lung. As John's grips slackens and Sherlock falls backwards, he sees himself standing behind the dead John with a smoking gun in his hand. _

Sherlock wakes up with a gasp, tears running down his face. He staggers to the living room and sits heavily on the couch, head between his hands. He can't do this anymore. He just can't. Impulsively, Sherlock lurches into John's room, a place he hasn't set foot in for nearly two months. He yanks open the bedside drawer where he knows John keeps his gun, and is devastated when he cannot find it there. Blast Mycroft!

Just before he slams the drawer shut, the corner of a photograph catches his interest. With trembling hands, Sherlock pulls it out. Worn at the edges, has been pulled out and looked at often. Kept underneath a dictionary, but on top of the other papers in the drawer. Recently looked at, but obviously John wanted to keep it private.

It's a picture of them.

John is sitting in his chair, laptop open on his lap, but he's looking up at Sherlock, who is leaning over John's chair. They're both laughing and Sherlock can easily see the fondness in their gazes. His throat tightens. That lingering look of awe on John's face and the proud, approval-hungry look in his own encapsulate their previous friendship so well it makes his heart hurt.

The caption on the back freezes him. "John and Sherlock November 23" in Ms. Hudson's handwriting. This was after the murders had started, after John realized he was Moriarty.

_"He cared for you deeply."_

Sherlock leaves the room, photo still in hand.

* * *

**Part II: John**

Jim leans across the front desk at the hotel. "I'd like the Presidential Suite," he drawls in perfect German. The greasy-haired hotel clerk looks down his nose at John.

"We don't book that room out. It is reserved for royalty and world leaders."

"Oh, but I am both, in fact. A king and ruler," Jim slides a business card across the desk, watching in glee as the blood drains out of the man's face.

"Of course, sir," he stammers rushing to get the keys to the room and hollering at a bellboy to assist Jim. Jim waves off the assistance breezily and saunters to the elevator, taking it to the top floor.

The room is breathtaking, the view, even more so. But after a few days in the country, Jim is more homesick than he ever thought he'd be. The gourmet food tastes bland compared to Ms. Hudson's homey soups and muffins and the opulent furniture is not nearly as comfortable as his own chair. Even the thrill of re-establishing his criminal empire does nothing to raise his spirits.

He happens to be walking alongside a river when he hears a commotion. Rounding the bend, he sees the entire area is taped off and police officers and forensic scientists are strolling about in apprehension. Like a moth drawn to a flame, Jim moves closer, until a police officer barks that this is a crime scene and no civilians are allowed. Jim shrugs it off, but he can't stop the memories from divulging.

The Sign of Four

His Last Bow

All the wonderful cases he worked on with Sherlock. Jim grimaces, "Stop!" he chastises himself, "You don't need that arrogant excuse of a flatmate. You're Jim Moriarty for God's sake." He can tell himself that a hundred times, but it doesn't lessen the void he feels sitting in that empty hotel room, the world at fingertips, but nothing in his heart.

* * *

A month into his travels, conversing with the darkest of Europe, Jim witnesses a child get struck by a car. The mother is screaming in hysteria as people gape in horror at the unmoving body. Feeling disconnected from his body, he pushes through the crowd, almost unaware that he shouting, "I'm a doctor, please move."

He's checking vitals and performing CPR when the paramedics arrive. For some reason, he is able to convince them to let him enter the ambulance and assists them in keeping the boy alive until they reach the hospital. He stays until the boy is declared in stable condition and extracts himself from the grateful mother, strolling out into the quiet streets of Switzerland.

Damn it. Jim hasn't felt this alive since he left London.

The next day he goes to the mountains, climbing quickly and vigorously up to the peak of the Matterhorn. Night is falling by the time he reaches the top and he looks out as stars sprinkle across the sky and lights flicker in towns below.

Why didn't dabbling in the criminal network please him anymore? Why was it that solving crimes and saving lives give him more of an adrenaline rush now that watching people die.

Maybe it's because it's harder to save someone than to destroy someone.

No.

It's because that's what John Watson prefers.

John Watson likes dancing with death; he likes being the sole barrier between a person and the great unknown.

But John Watson doesn't exist.

Jim wipes a tired hand across his face. He feels like he is being pulled apart, and for a psychopath, this is making him crazier than usual. Standing abruptly, he screams "WHO AM I?" and the answering echo is faint and uncertain.

He can't help but hate Sherlock. If Sherlock hadn't used his amnesia to convince Jim that he was a freakin' angel, he wouldn't be having this identity crisis.

_Maybe you hate him because he proved to you that you don't have to be a psychopath. Maybe you hate him because all this time, you thought that it was in your nature to kill and that you couldn't possibly do anything else. Maybe you hate him because now that he's given you a choice, you're too weak to try and change yourself. _

Jim slams his fist against the rock he was sitting on. He blinks the traitorous tears out of his eyes. Can he do it? Can he possibly try and become the John Watson that Sherlock wants?

Does he want to?

* * *

A month passes by and Moriarty's criminal empire slowly crumbles again. A few targeted deaths here and there and it's done.

The flight attendant greets everyone at the flight gate. As each person passes by, she looks at their passport and scans their ticket. A short, amiable looking man hands her his passport. She vaguely notes that his eyes are compassionate, which is odd, because she's never noticed that about anyone else before.

"Have a good flight to England, John."

* * *

A knock on the door of a small bungalow that speaks single mother.

A women with feathery blond hair and kind blue eyes opens the door and nearly faints when she sees the man standing there.

"Oh!" She says, hands flying to her mouth. "Doctor! You're alive!" John smiles wearily and nods.

"Is Janine here?" He asks. The woman opens the door wider and ushers him in. He sits awkwardly at the kitchen table as Janine's mother hurries upstairs to her daughter. John taps his finger idly against his knee, lost in thought. He's not sure what he's doing here, but it falls into place when Janine is stumbling over to him, shrieking in delight. On instinct, he wraps Janine up into his arms and swings her around.

They all sit at the kitchen table as Janine rambles on about school, ballet and her theories on how John survived. John could just sit here forever listening to her. He notices Janine's mother looking at him oddly and then winces. It must be worrisome to have a strange man so interested in her daughter. He doesn't even know why Janine means so much to him.

"Janine," her mother begins, "Why don't you go upstairs and get changed. I think John would love to take you out for ice cream to celebrate his returning from the dead." She smiles wryly as Janine nearly topples over in excitement, and grabbing her cane, Janine makes her way up to her room.

John braces himself for the interrogation, but to his surprise, Janine's mother just sighs and sips her tea. Then she leans forward and smiles, "So Mr. Moriarty, why exactly do you have such an interest in my daughter?"

John stares at Janine's mother in shock. Who was she? He would have never forgotten a client's face. "W…What do you mean?" he stammers, and then curses himself, the great Moriarty would never stumble.

Janine's mother laughs, "I didn't think you'd remember me. Let's just say I used to be involved in a less-than legal industry." John tries to remember anything about this woman, but he is frustrated to find nothing rings a bell. "So, I don't believed you answered my question, why an interest in my daughter?"

John looks squarely at Janine's mother. "I don't know," he admits, "Maybe it's because she brings out the humanity in me."

She nods in understanding, "She brought out the humanity in me too."

There is a heartbeat of a pause, and then Janine's mother says softly, "Sherlock brings out the humanity in you as well."

John looks down at the wooden table. "I don't think he'll forgive me after everything I've done to him."

"You'd be surprised," she says, spying her daughter coming down the stairs, "At what we're willing to do for the people we care about."

John borrows an umbrella from Janine's mother in case it starts to rain, which is a very likely possibility from the grey sky. He sticks out his hand toward Janine's mother. "I don't believe you've introduced yourself," he smiles.

She clasps his hand and says, "Mary. Mary Morstan."

_9 years ago_

_She is a brilliant assassin Moriarty thinks, watching in glee as one of his enemies slumps in his seat. The woman, eager to prove herself, winks at Moriarty from across the theatre. This is one of the more dangerous missions and Moriarty loves it. They're at a showing of Hamlet and she has already killed two not-so-complying business associates of his without anyone noticing. One more to go. _

_Suddenly, everything goes wrong. Black clad men wielding rifles enter the room, blocking all exits. They order everyone to get on the stage. Anyone who tries to escape will be shot. Moriarty, sitting near an exit, is forced to be herded toward the front of the theatre. He curses when he sees his opponent chatting with one of the men; somehow he got wind of Moriarty's appearance here tonight. His opponent looks up and makes eye contact with Moriarty. _

_"Stop," he says, pointing at Moriarty, "He's the one I want." Before another word is said, however, a single shot pierces through the man's heart and he tumbles forward. In the resulting chaos and amid the sounds of shots, Moriarty weaves amongst the crowd to an exit. He dives under the theatre-goers as a bullet whistles past his ear and when he comes up again, his blond hair is under a black wig and his jacket is now a grey instead of black. The man guarding the exit is already dead and his assassin appears behind him. _

_A brief smile, and she runs outside to signal their escape car. Moriarty hears her gasp. He doesn't have to see it to know she's been caught. Some arguing, she's playing the scared woman card, but when the revolver clicks, Moriarty knows it futile. _

_He should run. He's prepared for every contingency and knows there is another escape route. But for some reason, he doesn't. He walks outside, with the intention of turning himself over and giving his assassin time to escape. However, when the man in the navy suit points the gun at his forehead, smiling, the woman is quick to imbed her hair décor into his throat. _

_They barely escape that night, and it disturbs Moriarty that he has become so attached to someone. She's a liability. _

_He goes to her room the next night with the intention of smothering her. He drugged her meal and he knows she won't feel a thing. But he can't bear it, seeing her sleeping there. Those capable hands that have killed over a hundred times for him, that delicate nose, the full lips that looked so good in a smirk. He just sits by her bed until morning comes. When he tells her to leave, the blood drains from her face, but she nods respectfully and meets his eyes as she shakes his hand for the last time. _

_He doesn't let go of her hand though. He pulls her into a hug, which shocks him, because he's never done that impulsively before (except for the time he pulled a woman close to strangle her). Then she kisses him. And that kiss becomes deep and passionate. _

_After their clothes have been put back on, Moriarty tells her the name and location of a forger and a good plastic surgeon. He hands her one of his credit cards, and tells her to never contact him again. _

_She leaves and doesn't look back. _

_Moriarty rises in the criminal empire and drowns himself in murders and cruelty to try to forget about her. He doesn't have a heart, he tells himself everyday. And eventually, she fades from his mind as the insanity takes over._

"Have fun with your… John," Mary says, patting Janine's head.

Janine squeals, "You can be my Uncle John!" much to John and Mary's amusement.

Mary closes the door as John and Janine make their way down the streets of London, laughing as John evaluates Janine's deducing skills. Mary knows that Janine is extremely gifted, she has an unusually sharp mind, is fearless and adventure seeking, and has a physical grace; all inherited from her parents. She closes her eyes and a tear slips down her cheek. "Have fun with your dad," she whispers, smiling.

* * *

**Part III: One Year Later**

Trust doesn't come easy. After your heart has been broken time and time again, it heals together in a twisted way, and the ever-present cracks allow trust to slip through them.

John and Sherlock tiptoe around each other. There are moments where they forget that John was once Moriarty and share an amused look when Sherlock insults Anderson for saying something particularly idiotic, but then Sherlock's face closes off and he turns away.

They are chasing a serial killer through a dense forest when the ground drops away to reveal a ravine. The killer is well ahead of them as he makes his way precariously down the cliff, moving swiftly across a narrow ledge. John scans the area. "Jump!" He cries, pointing at a wider ledge a few feet below the killer. "I'll follow James down and we'll corner him.

Sherlock hesitates. "Why don't you jump?"

John looks incredulously at him. "Are you stupid? I have a lower center of gravity, I'll be able to make it down the cliff faster than you and can hold my ground if James tries to head back up."

When Sherlock doesn't make any move, John snarls in frustration and pushes past Sherlock. "Fine. I'll jump, go after James." He launches himself from the top of the cliff and lands lightly on the ledge. As Sherlock scrambles down towards James, John steadies himself and smiles at James. "Now where do you think you're going?"

James skitters to a stop and glances back at Sherlock. As John readies himself to tackle the serial killer, James gives a wild cry and lunges at Sherlock. James' lower stature throws Sherlock off balance and he topples over James in surprise, hitting the ground hard and sliding toward a deadly drop. John swears under his breath and jumps towards Sherlock. The air is knocked out of him as he scrabbles to grab Sherlock's arms before he goes over. With difficulty, he hauls Sherlock out of harm's way and looks back to see James disappear into the forest again.

Sherlock huffs and stands up, dusting off his coat. John clenches his fists. "Are you happy now? The serial killer got away."

Turning away, Sherlock taps on his phone, "I've already sent a description of James to the Yard, and they're combing the forest as we speak. Despite their general incompetency, I'm sure they'll manage to catch James."

John snarls, "And when they don't, let it be know that Sherlock Holmes let a murderer escape because he was too damn afraid of jumping a few feet down."

Sherlock whirls around, "And I wonder why I would be hesitant to take the advice of a psychopath to jump off a cliff for the second time!" he shouts, nostrils flaring. A suffocating silence falls between the two. Sherlock half regrets his outburst, but the relief from letting his bottled emotions explode out eclipses that regret…until he sees the hurt in John's eyes.

John stands up stiffly. "It was a building the first time." He mutters, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. "And that was over a year ago. You have no idea how hard I've tried to change. No one wants to be a psychopath." He pushes past Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at John's retreating back. "You lied to me," he says hoarsely.

John pauses without glancing back, "You lied to me too."

* * *

Even though it's been a year, Sherlock hasn't invited John to move back into Baker Street, and John hasn't asked. John lives in the adjacent neighbourhood, though, so he isn't too far off. Sherlock doesn't know if that's a good thing or not. He wants to trust John, he wants to go back to that easy, natural friendship that they had before, but his self-preservation keeps telling him to keep John at a distance.

_He's evil_

_He hates you_

_He'll only betray you_

The dark thoughts swirl around in Sherlock's head every night. Ms. Hudson doesn't complain about the dark violin music that she hears as she passes Sherlock's room, but Sherlock can see from her face that she misses the light-hearted tunes and lullabies Sherlock used to play for John.

After the last outburst at the botched capture of James Gilies, John stops coming to crime scenes. Sherlock is itching to text him, but he stubbornly refuses to cave in. Lestrade eventually tires of Sherlock's increasingly foul moods at the Yard and texts John.

We have a homicide –GL

You have Sherlock –JW

Not without you, we don't –GL

He doesn't want me there –JW

He doesn't trust me –JW

Well I do. So get yourself to 425 Meredith Road in the next 5 minutes or god help me I will drag you physically there myself –GL

I was Moriarty…you can't drag me anywhere –JW

How scary of you –GL

You know I saw you at Janine's ballet performance, holding her stuffed bear and a giant bouquet of flowers –GL

[Picture received]

Damn you! I hope this hasn't gone around the Yard –JW

It might after 3 minutes. Tick tock tick tock –GL

You're hilarious. I have patients you know. –JW

Look outside –GL

John looks outside his office window and sighs in fond exasperation. The cop car is parked right in the middle of the street, Lestrade gesturing frantically at him, as traffic builds up behind the car. He shouts at Sarah that he's taking an early lunch and hurries from the practice, sliding into the police car amongst the dirty looks and swears from the taxi drivers behind them.

"Stop flaunting your police privileges." John snaps good-naturedly as Lestrade takes off. Lestrade grins at him, and John can't help but feel warmth blossom in his chest. He thought that since Sherlock hadn't forgiven him, no one else would. He thought that everyone would hate him forever for hurting Sherlock. But Lestrade had yelled at him, punched him in the face and stomach and then took him out for a beer.

Sherlock is already there when they arrive at the grand house. He stiffens when he sees John and turns to Lestrade, ignoring the former consulting criminal. "She was shot by someone who was left-handed, and who she knew well and trusted," Sherlock rattles off his deductions, "Check for possible lovers of the lower class."

Kneeling down, John inspects the woman's body, "I'm not sure about the lovers. Unless she was lesbian."

Sherlock and Lestrade look at him. John continues, "I think the murder was done by a woman. Judging from the way the bullet entered her body, the murderer would have been shorter than me and trembled from the recoil of the gun rather than the out of fury as Sherlock believes. I don't think this is a crime of passion."

Scowling, Sherlock leans down to inspect the body again. "John may be right," he surmises reluctantly. He thinks for a moment and then his eyes light up. "Then if that's the case, I know who the murder must be." Without another word, he sprints downstairs and out of the house, John hot on his tail.

Lestrade bellows in frustration, "Well then, who is it?" And gets a door slam in reply.

John flings open the door of the cab and jumps in just before it leaves. Sherlock presses his lips together tightly. "Don't you have things to do with Lestrade?" he snaps.

"And miss the chase?" John retorts, "So who did it Sherlock? A woman who was angry at the victim for seducing her husband?"

Crossing his arms like a petulant child, Sherlock mutters, "Like you don't already know."

John sighs in exasperation. "Of course I don't know. That's why I'm asking you. We both know that you're better at connecting the dots than I."

Glaring suspiciously at him, Sherlock rattles off his deductions and concludes with a flourish. "So although you were right about the murderer being a female, she does have a male accomplice, who we are on our way to visit right now." John nods, still in awe of Sherlock's deductive skills. Being a criminal mastermind meant he could understand killers and egg on their desire to harm others, but only Sherlock could link everything together. Sherlock's eyes light up in delight at John's enraptured expression and he coughs, looking down at the screen of his phone as texts Lestrade the address of where they were headed.

The cab pulls up at an isolated warehouse in the industrial sector of London. Sherlock strides out of the cab, leaving John to hurriedly pay the driver and jog to catch up. They enter the building and Sherlock dramatically confronts the man at the counter.

Shouts and a toolbox are hurled.

Suddenly, the man is running off into the back of the warehouse, Sherlock and John chasing him, adrenaline pumping through their veins. They reach a large storage room, and at a nod from Sherlock, John creeps along the side, keeping out of sight behind the boxes. The man stands in centre of the room, hands up in submission. Sherlock saunters forward with confidence.

Smiling, John cocks his gun, ready, in case the man decides to make things difficult. Then he realizes with a start that the man does not have a look of defeat or fear in his eyes. After spending a lifetime with criminals, John knows when the criminal has everything in control, and this man…this man is much too comfortable.

_"So although you were right about the murderer being a female, she does have a male accomplice"_

John's eyes flicker upwards in time to see a woman step out on a catwalk and shoot Sherlock.

Three shots.

The woman gives a sharp cry as the shot pushes her off the catwalk. She's dead when she hits the floor.

The man groans as the bullet ricochets off his knee, he sinks to the ground clutching at it.

Sherlock exclaims in shock as John slams into him, and stars explode across his vision as his head smacks on the cement ground.

John swears, clutching at his chest. _That might have been vital organ_ he thinks through the haze of pain.

Once Sherlock can think again, he realizes with a start that he's soaked in blood. John's blood. He struggles to sit up, wrapping his long arms around John protectively. "John," he gasps, looking stupidly at the blood pouring from between John's fingers.

John nods weakly, "Punctured lung. Sorry about that." Shaking his head in denial, Sherlock clutches John as his life seeps out of him.

"Why did you take that bullet, John?" Sherlock croaks, tears cascading down his cheeks,

Blinking slowly up at him, John murmurs almost sleepily, "I don't know. I just couldn't let you die." Sherlock's heart throbs painfully, as John's eyes slide closed. He gives John a frantic shake.

"No, stay conscious. You survived a fall off a hospital and an exploding building. You can't let a measly bullet kill you now."

John's eyes flicker open, tired navy meeting anxious grey. "S'okay Sherlock," he slurs, "Working with you, was everything I ever wanted. You…you were my best friend." His eyes shut and no matter what Sherlock does, screaming, begging, shaking, John doesn't respond. What feels like hours later, the ambulance and Scotland Yard finally storm into the warehouse. Sherlock can barely remember screaming hysterically as the paramedic pry John away from he. He barely registers Lestrade putting the shock blanket around him. He can't help but hate himself. Fate gave him John Watson back and he refused to let him in. Now John is gone.

* * *

After Sherlock calms down, he begs Lestrade to take him to the hospital, but before he can do anything, Mycroft is there. He ushers Sherlock into his car, giving an interfering paramedic an icy look when she protests. Sherlock slumps against the seat.

"He's dead now, isn't he?" Sherlock says hollowly.

Mycroft sighs, "I don't know Sherlock."

"His heart. It stopped beating," Sherlock can vaguely remember feeling for John's non-existent pulse before the paramedics arrived.

"There might be a slim chance," Mycroft begins, but suddenly Sherlock is clutching onto him and sobbing into his jacket. Mycroft should mind the fact that this is an expensive suit, but he doesn't. He's holding onto Sherlock the way he held Sherlock as a child. Tears soak into Mycroft's shirt and he pulls Sherlock closer to him and holds him as if he'll never let go.

When the driver pulls up at 221B, Mycroft coaxes Sherlock out of the car. Sherlock stiffens as he takes in his surroundings. "I need to be at the hospital."

Mycroft tries to protest, but is silenced by the sheer desperation in Sherlock's eyes. Without another word, they are headed to the hospital, Sherlock's apprehension visibly rolling off of him in palpable waves.

At the hospital Sherlock nearly throws a fit when the front desk doesn't have anything to say about John's condition, but Mycroft steps in with the authority of one who controls the nation and gets secretary to run to the emergency room to check on John's status. Sherlock fidgets for the ten minutes that she's gone and his heart cracks when she returns with a grave-looking doctor.

"You are the family of John Watson?"

"Close enough," Mycroft replies, eyeing his near-crazed brother. Sherlock's pupils are dilated in fear.

The doctor sighs, "John was dead on scene."

Sherlock stops breathing, but the doctor continues. "We managed to revive him in the ambulance, but his heart stopped twice more before we could get him to the hospital. Currently he is in critical condition. Even if he survives," The doctor hesitates, "There may be irreparable brain damage due to the lack of oxygen."

Mycroft sneaks a glance at Sherlock, who seems to have lost his pallor completely. Mycroft is about to reply when Sherlock mutters, "I'll take care of him." Sherlock sits up, almost in defiance, as he repeats, "No matter what condition he is in, I'll take care of him once he can be released from the hospital."

"Sherlock, you can't possibly be prepared to," Mycroft ventures, but Sherlock explodes at him.

"I won't leave John!"

It's an agonizing ten hour wait as doctors scramble to stabilize John. Then another excruciating twelve hours before Sherlock is allowed in John's room. The doctor is unsure whether John will be able to remember anything or frankly if he'll be able to think like a human being at all.

Sherlock refuses to leave John's side and falls asleep against John's bed after another twelve hours of unresponsiveness. Mycroft, sighing, wraps a blanket around Sherlock.

* * *

Waking up to a parched throat, Sherlock blinks in momentary confusion. His neck hurts from passing out on John's bed while sitting in the chair beside it and he is embarrassed to find that he had grasped onto John's hand while he slept. Finding comfort in the hold, Sherlock decides not to let go. He stares at John's face as John sleeps. The blond hair, rumpled and wayward, the button nose and slight bags under the eyes. He commits each detail to memory and is surprised to find that he already knows all of this. He's paid attention to his blogger, to his friend.

Sherlock reaches over hesitantly to sweep a stray strand of hair away from John's forehead and as he does, John's eyes open. Like a child caught in with his hand in the cookie jar, Sherlock freezes, half in hope and half in fear. The blue eyes are vacant and his heart twists in defeat as he sits back down slowly and pulls his hand away from John. John's fingers tighten around his own, however, and Sherlock can only whisper "John" in anticipation.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

On the tenth second, John breathes out a tentative "Sherlock," his indigo eyes dulled with drugs, but completely lucid as Sherlock cries silently, crushing John's fingers between his own.

* * *

Trust doesn't come easy. After your heart has been broken time and time again, it heals together in a twisted way, and the ever-present cracks allow trust to slip through them.

John takes Sherlock's heart and breaks it when he nearly dies for him. This time, though, he pieces together the fragments with patience, taking care to seal the cracks and polish the surface as Sherlock helps him through a long road to recovery.

Healing a broken heart isn't easy.

But John Watson has always been an exceptional doctor.

When John is deemed fit to leave the hospital, Sherlock doesn't hesitate when he helps John into the cab and says to the driver.

"221B Baker Street"

* * *

**Thanks for reading everyone! **

**I get it's probably confusing that John & Sherlock are going to live together even though John fathered a child with Mary, but in this story, John & Mary's relationship is history and they're just going to focus on being good parents to Janine now. The main theme is supposed to be John & Sherlock's friendship - The point of Mary was to emphasize that Moriarty did have some heart in him before he met Sherlock. **

**ANYWAYYYS The Making of John Watson is officially over now! I hope you liked it and I appreciated all the comments and fav/follows! I got so much positive feedback for my first fanfic and words cannot describe how happy I am! **

**Thank you! **


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